


Love & Family

by okbutjusthisonce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bulecelup, Character Death, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Yes she's a tag now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:25:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okbutjusthisonce/pseuds/okbutjusthisonce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovers the value of sensitivity a little too late.<br/>Angsty fic for for bulecelup</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love & Family

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bulecelup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulecelup/gifts).



> I wrote this for bulecelup!
> 
> She made me lovely art for my much (ahem!) happier fic 'Submarine'. 
> 
> Consider yourselves warned, I tried to tailor it to her taste. ;P
> 
> This is my first stab at angst, so it might be a little over the top.  
> Or not enough. Hellz, I dunno...

“Hurry!” He hisses over his shoulder. Sherlock charges down the south bank, through the crowds, in hot pursuit. He’s aware of John’s position, somewhere behind him. Sherlock is excited; the young man he pursues is nearly in reach, they’ve been chasing him for more than a month. The young man avoids a silver street performer and suddenly veers to the left. Sherlock takes a gamble, and runs past the front of Tate Modern, turning after the main building and back towards the tanks... normally John would stay on the target’s trail directly, but today-

Today Sherlock watches with an irritated growl as the young man slides over the bonnet of a car, and hops into a mini cab. Sherlock is a bit too far away. There is no one to help him close the loop. John is nowhere in sight.

“What happened?” he demands fifteen minutes later. John still looks winded, his face puffy in the summer heat.

“Sorry.”  is all he says. They walk in silence a long time.

 

 

 …..

****

****

At home Sherlock begins throwing food away. Farewell, to jam, milk and bread. Hob Nobs, certainly. Clotted cream especially.

John watches, wide eyed at the assault on their pantry.

“What are you doing?” he finally asks.

“You need to lose weight!” Sherlock shouts. John jumps. Even Sherlock is a little surprised at his own volume.

“I’m trying.” says John quietly. “It - hasn’t been easy I -” His eyes dart around the room nervously. They look somewhat sunken, perhaps from the medication, perhaps from the day’s defeat. Sherlock knows this conversation pattern all too well. Knows what John is thinking.

“You can’t blame this on me forever.” says Sherlock, still angry. “I’m back now, I’m not dead, I love you. We’ve established all that. It’s time to pull yourself up by your bootstraps, John.”

“I know, it’s just - something changed - I - when I thought you were gone forever. When I watched you kill yourself - saw you die - it’s like - it - took a piece of me along too - I’m trying to work it out -”

“But I _didn’t_ kill myself.” Sherlock grabs a box of mince pies John thinks he has hidden and throws them into the bin emphatically.

“We could have had him, John! Had you been there!”

John looks away. _He really has gained weight_ , Sherlock thinks, scowling at John’s puffy face in the fading afternoon light. He was shocked when he’d returned to find John in such a state; how far he’d let himself go. But that was more than a year ago... and they’d made up through physical affection and they don’t talk about it and Sherlock doesn’t believe in depression anyway. Certainly he doesn’t believe in bowing to something as crass as emotion. How weak. And really, obesity is a big turnoff for him. He misses John’s old body, his action-man physique. John knows this, Sherlock’s told him before.

“Maybe I should stop coming with you.” Says John softly.

Sherlock looks at John, feels himself become even more disgusted somehow.

“Absurd,” He says coldly, “Of course you’ll come along. Only I’m not dead. We’re together again. Everything’s fine, so get over it.” Sherlock ties the bag and takes it outside.

 ****  

 

…..

 

The second time it happens they are in Willsden Green, trampling through people's gardens and lives. John is a little faster this time; he’s been going to the gym religiously but falls behind after one too many fences present themselves for hopping. This time the young man manages to laugh and give Sherlock the finger before revving the cycle and disappearing into the night.

John appears as if on cue, looking strained and pale.

“Was...that...him?” he asks between gasps of air.

“You useless, fat fuck.” says Sherlock.

****

…..

 

****

Later, Sherlock tries to break the silence that has followed them back to Baker Street. He knows he went too far. It was the elusive young man mocking him, John must understand that. He reaches out, tries to hug John, pull the two of them together in a tight embrace, the way John likes. John shakes Sherlock off, quite literally. He goes to the kitchen and begins making himself some tea.

Sherlock tries again, this time slipping up behind John, leaning in to kiss his neck.

“John...” he starts to whisper.

“Don’t - touch me!” cries John, whipping around and pushing Sherlock away. Sherlock is stunned. John’s face is a mask of pain, eyes red rimmed and glassy from holding back tears.

Sherlock feels his mouth open slightly in speechless surprise.

“John...”  
“Don’t! Just - just leave me alone, Sherlock.” John says pushing past him.

“I - don’t want -”

“It should be easy! Seeing as I’m so repulsive to you!” Sherlock winces as John slams the door to his bedroom. Sherlock picks up his violin. He dislikes emotions. He will let John ride it out.

  

 

…..

****

It’s not until the next night that Sherlock has worked things out a bit. Why John has not rejoined him, is still presumably upset. Apologies are foreign things to him; he forgets they exist most of the time. Once he’s remembered they do exist, he spends hours crafting one. ‘I’m sorry’ seems rather dull.

He is eager to issue it, but afraid to agitate John further. Sherlock decides to wait until morning. John always seems to get cranky when he’s woken in the middle of the night. Dawn should be alright, he thinks. 

 

 

…..

 

 

“John?” Sherlock says softly, pushing the bedroom door open. The early light washes the room in pale, melancholy shades of gold. John lies curled on the bed, his back to Sherlock. He is still fully clothed. Sherlock realizes with a pang of regret how upset John must be. He’d have never done before - but perhaps this is just another part of the new John he must contend with, the “depressed” John. The vulnerable John. Sherlock wants to make it right.

“John,” he says, louder this time. He opens his mouth to deliver his elaborate apology. His mind is suddenly blank. Sherlock looks at the outline of the figure on the bed. John bathed in golden light. Something clicks and and Sherlock recognizes real love within himself for the first time.

He loves John, more than anything. He will always regret his recent cruelty. He never wants to hurt John again. He will always love John the way he is. He will always be grateful that John is in his life. Sherlock knows it now, down to the core of his being. He moves around the bed, he wants to take John’s hands and tell him so, to kiss John’s face in the new day’s light.

****

“John... John? …John?!”

****

 …..

 

 

"Nonketotic hypersmolar coma." they tell him at the hospital.

“He doesn't have diabetes.” argues Sherlock, desperately clinging to a space where he is in control.

“He most likely developed it as a result of the pregnancy.” they say, and Sherlock is out of words, having gained and lost the most important ones in the same moment.

“He was left alone a long time, but still has a fighting chance.” they say, “stay with him, talk to him.”

Sherlock sits by John’s side, but he is not very good at talking, at least not the way they mean.

When his phone buzzes at two AM, he can’t resist. Tonight he will get his man, and he will do it for John.

“I’m going now,” he says quietly, “to catch that dealer we’ve been chasing...”

 ****  

 

 …..

****

****

They don’t tell him right away. They are too busy setting his leg, taking his statement, filling out forms, admittance, arrest. It’s only much later, when he’s settled and adrift on a cloud of morphine that Lestrade appears, looking hollow and small.

“I’m sorry.” he says, and Sherlock knows he is haunted forever.

****

 

…..

 

John’s old cane is too short for him, but the head has transferred nicely. Sherlock limps through the cemetery, his new accessory in tow, he wants to show John. He sways uncertainly at the twin graves. It’s always hard for him to get started, no matter how many times he visits.

The frost covered grass crunches behind him, and his brother is there, looking drawn and pale. Concerned, he supposes.

“You must stop torturing yourself, Sherlock.” says Mycroft,  “How long can this go on? It will be the end of you.”

“It should have never happened. I should have been there for him... for both of them... for our...” Sherlock shudders, unable to finish the sentence.

“How could you have? You didn’t know... about any of it.” Mycroft looks at the child's grave sadly.

“There are worse ways to go you know.” he says. Sherlock doesn’t look at his brother.

“The last thing he heard from me was that he was fat, useless. That I had nothing but contempt for him. That he was unloved. He died in pain, Mycroft, and it was my fault.” Sherlock answers solemnly.

“They both died, alone and in the dark.” He adds, “And that weight is mine to carry.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hear by apologize to each and every one of you


End file.
